“If there is a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, you must be the one to write it.”
~ Toni Morrison
I think about this every time I get a new story idea. NOBODY is going to write that story but me. Nobody else could.
So many story ideas, so little time…
If there is a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, you must be the one to write it.
~ Toni Morrison
I think about this every time I get a new story idea. NOBODY is going to write that story but me. Nobody else could.
JUST dopamine?
Your brain: You know this is just dopamine, right?
The rest of you: SHUT UP, BRAIN!
20 Of The Best Things That Happen When You’re First Falling In Love With Someone
(… as they’re preparing the bright shiny new android shell… )
I saw this quiz online about ‘what is your brain gender’, and I was suspicious. Why does anyone want to know my brain’s gender? WHAT ARE YOU PLANNING ON DOING WITH MY BRAIN?
So probably not such a bargain, in the end
I am now imagining The Incredible Hulk Moving Company. They can move heavy things but break a lot of them in the process.
This is an observation, not a challenge
You can’t get drunk enough to kill the mosquitos with your blood alcohol content when they bite you. Don’t ask me how I know this.
Let sleeping dogs lie
Let sleeping dogs lie. You’ll never get them to admit that they weren’t telling the truth anyway.
The arrow of time
You’ve heard the joke about what happens when you play country music backward, I trust.
I am going to watch the Star Wars movies backward.
The Empire returns to democracy. Darth Vader regains his innocence and his limbs, the Death Star is dismantled, and the Jedi order is restored.
Are you sure?
A writing exercise:
The exercise was to visit a nearby cemetary, sit down next to the oldest tombstone you could find, and write about the person lying underneath you.
The sun was shining that day, and the grass was just turning green after the long winter. I knew the cemetary. I had friends and family buried there, but not in the oldest section. There were some grand, ornate monuments; none on the scale of Ozymandias, but impressive nonetheless. Others were thin, or leaning, or broken. But the oldest tombstone stood as upright as the day it was placed. It was deeply pitted, though. The writing chiseled into it was barely legible.
I sat down, took the pen from my shirt pocket, and started the exercise. “They’re dead.” I wrote.
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and there was a soft voice in my ear. “Are you sure?” it said.
Doomed, I tell you. DOOMED.
This is a writer’s imagination at work. Someone in real life mentions a happy adventure coming up, and you think, “Ah! In fiction, this would be a foreshadowing of DOOM for this unsuspecting character!” And you start counting down their last happy hours.